


Wine Tasting 101

by White_Marker



Series: Very short short stories [2]
Category: Shadowhunters (TV)
Genre: Crack, M/M, wine tasting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-25
Updated: 2018-02-25
Packaged: 2019-03-23 22:35:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,907
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13797768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/White_Marker/pseuds/White_Marker
Summary: Simon has reclaimed the words to reference the Lord, and during his novice experience as a wine taster, he uses it in vain. Repeatedly.He wonders if Raphael regrets inviting him as a plus one to the wine tasting.





	Wine Tasting 101

_Before_

 

Simon had been complaining that he had so little in common with his clan leader – different hobbies, different styles, different music preferences, different palettes (his preferred bloody drink was a good ol’ type A, while Raphael always chose a refined Bloody Mary, which Simon declared to be ‘ungodly’), different fighting styles (namely that Simon didn’t have one), different backgrounds, different ages, etc.

 

The list was long and this didn’t escape Simon’s attention. In fact, it worried him. It worried him so much, that one night when Raphael approached him in the early hours after midnight, when he was aimlessly roaming undiscovered hallways of the Du Mort, Simon was ecstatic when he heard the following words:

 

“Would you like to join me?”

 

Raphael had actually proposed they undertake an activity together – _together!_ This was a miraculous first. Sure, they were technically together, sort of. But for being in a sort-of-relationship, they didn’t spend all that much time together. Simon had tried to rectify this gross mistake without much success. Usually his proposals were met with firm no’s. Would Raphael like to come along to the movies with Clary and Isabelle? No, he would not. Would he like to join Simon for a free gig in downtown Manhattan? No, he would not. Would Raphael like to join him for a walk? No, he would not.

 

Granted, mostly Raphael refused because he was busy. Contrary to his outwards appearance, nonchalant and calm to the point that he looked bored, Raphael actually spent most of his time at a desk, working on international clan relations. He was a busy man.

 

So when Raphael proposed an evening together, Simon felt elated, so much so that he agreed to the invitation – “Yes! Yes, I’ll come with you!” – without actually considering what the invitation signified. A wine-tasting? _Gods!_ A request to join Raphael for a wine-tasting evening meant an entire night of drinking wine – which Simon ‘Fruity Drink’ Lewis did _not_ do. It meant hours spent in the company of fellow Du Mort vampires who didn’t seem particularly inclined towards the baby of the clan. It meant pretentious wino-babble about labels and tastes Simon didn’t understand the first thing about. He’d make a prime tool of himself, an absolute moron!

 

“Oh, god,” he murmured to himself, and once Raphael left room with a soft, “Bye, baby,” the broad Lewis-trademark smile dropped from his face.

 

Simon sighed. “What have I just agreed to?”

 

 

 

_Now_

 

A full two weeks of anxiety and inconvenient worst-case scenarios floating through his head. Never let it be said Simon wasn’t imaginative – or a dramaqueen.

 

“Oh, my god,” Simon muttered as he loosened his bowtie for the third time. He grumbled for good measure and threw the damned thing on the floor, then picked it up after staring at it for a full ten seconds as he directed his most effective hate-glare at the thing. “Ridiculous.”

 

“What is wrong now?”

 

Simon jumped a few feet into the air, slamming into the standing mirror in front of him as he tumbled sideways in a hurry to get away from the danger. The danger ended up being an out-of-patience Raphael. His standard expression of annoyance was in its place.

 

“This damn thing won’t work!”

 

Raphael sighed and properly entered the room, stopping in front of Simon and deftly tying the bowtie into a proper bow.

 

“I should’ve bought one of those stick-on thingies. Clip-on thingies.”

 

“They’re not classy.”

 

“Not if you can’t tell they’re fake!”

 

“You’re a grown man, Lewis, learn to tie a tie, learn to put on a bowtie. Your mother will be proud.” The last sentence lingered on Raphael’s lips with a sassy grin. When Simon mumled _ugh, god,_ Raphael tightened the knot and dug his nails into Simon’s throat.

 

“Ouch.”

 

Raphael smiled, pleased. “Are you ready, yet? You’ve been in here for ages. And they call _me_ vain.”

 

Magnus called him vain, repeatedly, but the needling was useless as Raphael usually lifted his chin at such teasing and owned the truth.

 

“I’m not vain!” Simon protested. At Raphael’s quirked brow, he vehemently added, “I’m _not_! I’m stressed. Preoccupied. Instilled with terror at the prospect of—,”

 

“ _Dios,_ calm down, will you? You’ll make me look like an idiot.”

 

“Oh, _that’s_ nice, I’m _sorry_ for damaging your reputation, oh mighty leader.”

 

“Thank you.”

 

Simon batted Raphael’s hands away and turned to the mirror, quickly adjusting the bowtie to perfection. He huffed. “Let’s just go, amigo.”

 

“Done. I’ve only been waiting for fifteen minutes, anyway.”

 

 

\--

 

 

The wine-tasting would not take place in Du Mort, but the clan had been invited to another old but renovated building in Harlem. It certainly was less decrepit and dulled than Du Mort, Simon thought as he walked in. The walls were clean and the ceilings devoid of spider webs and dust strings. They were painted a deep grey blue, with golden borders. On the floor lay dark wooden parquet. In the middle of the parlour and dining room hung two large, glittering chandeliers, crystal mandalas that dominated the room with their brilliance. Simon’s eyes grew big and glassy as he watched his surroundings.

 

Raphael’s knocked into his side. “Baby?”

 

“Huh! What.” Simon returned to the present.

 

“This is Felicitas Alvarez, our host,” said Raphael. The woman in front of his wore a simple, loose dress of dark blue silk, and dangling, diamond earrings. Her dark skin was pale, but coated in a thin almost invisible layer of make-up. She smiled benignly at him.

 

“Hi! Hello. I’m Simon.” He returned her broad smile. In the small silence that followed, he grappled for material, and then rambled about his lack of culinary knowledge in the wine department.

 

“Oh, that’s fine, love,” she said, “not all of us are serious wine-tasters or sommeliers, after all.”

 

She was lovely and put him at ease. Raphael had disappeared during their conversation to go speak with Magnus, but despite losing his anchor, Simon felt his anxiety abate slightly.

 

“You’re really nice, Felicitas,” he said, before catching up to what he’d blurted out like a five-year-old.

 

She laughed and said, “Raphael had told me you were quite innocent.”

 

Simon let loose a noise of surprise and outrage.

 

Before he could defend himself or damn Raphael for spreading lies, a man announced to the room, “All right, let’s start!”

 

“Start what?” he asked.

 

Felicitas replied, “The tasting, of course.”

 

“Oh. Yeah. Right.” This was an organized event, apparently.

 

He was afraid they would all laugh at him.

 

Let the nightmare begin.

 

 

\--

 

 

It was one a.m., a civilized hour for downworlders. The sun had been down for a while. Felicitas opened the evening. “Tonight, ladies and gentlemen, we’re tasting Chablis wine – the vineyards producing these wines are located in northern Burgundy, France, as we all know from last year’s trip, which was an all around success.”

 

A small chuckle ran through the group. Simon smiled uncertainly. Apparently they went on wine trips to France? What a decadent bunch. Simon stared at the – for now – empty tasting glasses, while Felicitas continued the introduction.

 

“It’s produced from the Chardonnay grape, and all of tonight’s nine bottles are _grands crus, premiers crus_. Now, some wines are stored in oak barrels, your regular wood aging, but for these Chablis, known for their tendency towards acidity, not fruitiness, glass barrels are used. Why? Well, because the taste and smell will otherwise be completely dominated by the trail of wood, which isn’t the case for other wines.”

 

Felicitas’ husband, a rather short and stout man with a droll little smile on his face, passed around the table and handed each guest a sheet of paper and a pen.

 

“Oddly enough the minimum alcohol percentage is 11, which is rather low,” said Felicitas. A low murmur of surprise came from the table. Simon didn’t understand anything, but he pretended to. He glanced at Raphael, who sat next to him, and who focused all his attention on Felicitas. His discomfort must’ve been clear, however, because he felt Raphael’s hand grip his knee in comfort.

 

“What else?” said Felicitas. She thanked her husband, who joined her side. “Chablis ages rather well, developing a more sweet aroma and taste. Some describe it as gaining a Sauterne-like quality. But as we’ve restricted this evening’s selection to the last five years of production, Richard,” her husband, who at this point gave a small smile, “chose one from 1996 for after the tasting, for whom is interested.”

 

_Dear god_. What is Sauterne? Was he supposed to know this?

 

The tasting began. It was a blind tasting of nine wines, each bottle pocketed so that the labels were covered. Simon pretended to sniff wine number three and looked down at the sheet in front of him. The page was full of classifications, such as ‘Taste: acidity/ _mouelleux_ /tannins/synthesis’, and ‘Colour: intensity/nuance/shine/clarity/translucence’, and frankly, Simon didn’t realize they were so many different variables to colour or taste. He would not become a chef this century.

 

“Mh,” said a woman to his left. “Not unbalanced, number four. Bit of a bitter touch, don’t you think?”

 

“Uh-huh.” He coughed and quickly gulped a sip of number two, which was so sour he grimaced.

 

Raphael caught his contorted face and grinned. “You can just spit it out if you don’t like it. There are buckets for that.” A few metal buckets lined the middle of the table.

 

“I like it fine, goddamnit!” he insisted.

 

“Right, baby.”

 

He wasn’t raised that way.

 

A portly man at the other end of the table gained the attention of the whole table. Simon ignored Raphael’s smirk in order to listen “… and a Sauvignon really wakens your taste buds, unlike a Chardonnay, which is much thicker.”

 

“Is a Champagne good then, too, to awaken your taste buds?” asked a guest.

 

“Yes, certainly, Champagne is also very open, although it has the tendency to numb taste buds, so perhaps it is less desirable. Either way, a dry white wine is the best way to open a meal, I’m not sure many young drinkers are aware of that.”

 

A round of _mh_ s came from the guests.

 

The entire table grunted disapprovingly when smelling wine number six. Simon was proud of himself for agreeing, for once. He couldn’t distinguish thick from full, or tannins from sour touches, he couldn’t extract hints or petrol or grapefruit, even with his advanced sense of smell, but he _could_ agree with the group that number six smelled of old, busted pipes.

 

“It smells of toilet,” he claimed with surety.

 

The table laughed. “Grandly put!” said an old vampire from a neighbouring clan.

 

Simon felt proud of himself, even for saying a wine smelled like a toilet.

 

 

\--

 

 

“There’s not much variety when it comes to colour, is there? They all look exactly the same.”

 

“I agree, darling, dreadfully boring isn’t it?” Magnus said. He was decked out, glitter and kohl decorating his dark eyes. Magnus was one of the few faces Simon really knew.

 

 

\--

 

 

“Chablis is _the_ wine to drink with oysters. But not when there’s oak aging, of course—,”

 

“I miss oysters,” said Raphael, who was not drunk, but slightly nostalgic.

 

“I’d consider mixing it with some fries and ketchup,” interjected someone.

 

“Oh!”

 

“Hum! Heathen!”

 

 

\--

 

 

“It’s all about chemicals, stupid!”

 

“Yeah!”

 

 

\--

 

 

The room steadily relaxed and lost its pretentious air as the wine flowed. Most guests used the buckets and didn’t swallow the nine glasses, others drank à volonté.

 

 

\--

 

 

“Is it hot in here, or is it just me? Goddamn.”

 

“It’s you, baby.”

 

 

\--

 

 

“Nine has some butter and lemon. Eight only butter.”

 

“Mh, I get what you mean. Eight tastes a little more oily.”

 

“I agree! Nine is too greasy.”

 

 

\--

 

 

“Number seven almost seems to have a hint of varnish in its taste. Not in the smell, but in the taste.”

 

“Varnish?”

 

“Varnish. Or turpentine.”

 

“Oh!” laughed a drunk Felicitas, giggling and grabbing her husband’s arm. “That’s probably because Richie served number seven, with his paint hands.”

 

Everyone laughed, and Simon, slightly tipsy and much more at ease than before, turned to Raphael with a question. “What’s the joke?”

 

“Oh, her husband’s a painter.”

 

“Ah. Eh.”

 

 

\--

 

 

“I’d kill for an oyster, right now.”

 

 

\--

 

 

Right before Felicitas and her husband would announce the winner – as each couple or guest had brought along one of the nine wines, and the highest rated Chablis would walk away with a gift – Simon realized the people surrounding him weren’t at all pretentious. They were just a small group of people having fun, making sometimes far-fetched and ungrounded announcement about wine, and he didn’t need to be a sommelier to enjoy this evening. Unfortunately his anxiety made him realize this a bit too late. He sat at the table, tipsy and a little distracted while he fiddled with his bow tie, and came to the conclusion that even if he and Raphael quite clearly didn’t enjoy the same things, they still enjoyed each other’s company.

 

Felicitas announced that wine number two was the winner. “Domaine Aurelain, Beau-Roy, a total of thirty six points, twenty-three dollars, and from the year two thousand and fifteen.”

 

Startled, he realized this was the first time Raphael had invited him along out in public. Not in the private quarters of their room at Du Mort.

 

He had nothing to worry about. He had his place. Without hesitating, he put his hand in Raphael’s under the table, who locked his fingers with Simon’s without pausing in his conversation with Magnus.

 

“No, no,” Raphael said, “you see these scores and they don’t match in any way. Someone gives wine number six seventh place, their neighbour gives it first place. How is that possible?”

 

Magnus nodded. “But it’s more difficult with white wines, too, because of the temperature changes as you drink. As you drink them, they cool off, and taste completely different.”

 

“Exactly. The Fourchaume, Châtelain tasted like crap after it was opened, but ten minutes later it was balanced and had a subtle aftertaste, not at all bitter anymore.”

 

“Mh, yes,” agreed Magnus, taking another swallow.

 

Simon took all this in and didn’t know what to think. But he had not to worry.

 

A few moments later, when the table was cleared of all the tasting glasses that littered the table, Richard came by to take everyone’s order for espresso. The wine would be a bitch for his digestion system, but what vampire was crazy enough to drink coffee?

 

Simon looked at him as if he were mad, and Richard chuckled.

 

“You know how humans drink an espresso to digest their meal? We vampires do the same – only with the bloody variant.”

 

“Oh god,” Simon blurted, disgusted. “Eh – well. Uhm.”

 

Raphael leaned in and said, “Caffè lungo, not decaf, for me.”

 

Simon was a little speechless. “None for me thanks.”

 

Everyone was once again settled in their seat and started to chatter loudly. A few conversations divided the big dining room table. Simon mostly spoke to Magnus, the lady next to him, and Raphael.

 

The scent wafting from Raphael’s cup of coffee was not horrible. Not at all. He dare even say, enticing? He missed coffee. As a human, it was his go-to drink.

 

He stared at the cup until it was empty, and regretted not asking for one, too.

 

 

\--

 

 

Once at home, the both of them inebriated and stumbling around their bedroom half undressed, Simon thanked Raphael for taking him along.

 

“ _De nada_ , baby. Did you enjoy yourself?”

 

“Yeah,” he said before he tripped over his pants and fell onto the bed.

 

Raphael laughed at him and caged him in on the bed, putting his hands around Simon’s arms and holding them down tightly. “Yeah?”

 

“Yeah,” he repeated, trying to squirm out of the pants that were twisted around his ankles. “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Simon agreed again.

 

“Mh.”

 

Raphael leaned in an licked a long strip along Simon’s neck. “You smell good, now.”

 

“Of wha?” he asked

 

“You’ll taste better, I think.”

 

“What – whoo-ey! Oh, my god!”

 

Without warning, Raphael had sunk his teeth into the fine skin of his throat. He placed his lips in a wide O around the bite and sucked at the skin to greedily collect every stray drop of blood.

 

Simon felt his pants tightening. “God, hey – oi, if you continue, it’ll get embarrassing.”

 

“I was right,” Raphael breathed between two mouthfuls of blood, “You taste like wine.”

 

“Drunkard!” Simon accused.

 

Raphael only hummed in agreement and continued to drink. Simon lay limp on the mattress, like a doll.

 

But he stirred quickly enough and though he knew Raphael didn’t really enjoy any sexual contact, they’d come to an agreement of sorts. Simon smiled to himself and allowed his hands to drift until they found Raphael’s hair. He massaged Raphael’s temples and traced his skull with sharp nails.

 

From the sounds against his throat, Simon understood his ministrations were appreciated. He moved his body against Raphael, who was buried so far into his neck and could barely string to words together, and Simon, in the daze of alcohol and pleasure, enjoyed the friction.

 

They lay there, spent and a little slaphappy, for the remainder of the night. Simon licked away the stray drops from Raphael’s mouth. He rubbed and sucked at a resilient spot and was too embarrassed – and fearful for his life – to admit to Raphael there was now an angry red mark next to his mouth.

 

“So, when’s the next wine-tasting?”

 

 


End file.
